the wall was shut and locked. We hammered discreetly on its panels of
mountain pine, until a guard answered our knocking, recognized our
voices and admitted us.

"He's in there," he said, pointing to the darkened windows of the
offices--toward which he led us.

He unlocked the front door--having evidently locked it when he went to
the gate--and he explained to a waiting attendant: "These brethren have
an appointment. They wish to see Brother Mack."

The attendant led us down a dimly-lighted hall, through the public
offices of the President into a rear room, a sort of retiring room,
carpeted, furnished with bookcases, chairs, a table. The window blinds
had all been carefully drawn.

Joseph F. Smith was waiting for us--a tall, lean, long-bearded man of a
commanding figure standing as if our arrival had stopped him in some
anxious pacing of the carpet. His overcoat and his hat had been thrown
on a chair. He greeted us with the air of one who is hurried, and sat
down tentatively; and as soon as we came to the question of my trip to
Washington, he broke out:

"These scoundrels here must be removed--if there's any way to do it.
They're trying to repeat the persecutions of Missouri and Illinois. They
want to despoil us of our heritage--of our families. I'm sick of being
hunted like a wild beast. I've done no harm to them or theirs. Why can't
they leave us alone to live our religion and obey the commandments of
God and build up Zion?" He had begun to stride up and down the floor
again, in a sort of driven and angry helplessness. "I thought Cleveland